


Pira

by Sarayburnu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Everything, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 01:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19842835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarayburnu/pseuds/Sarayburnu
Summary: Pira, Italian for Pyre or BonfireRating subject to change...Aziraphale's taste for fashion has to start somewhere. Crowley's been pining and will continue to do so for quite some time. Gabriel and Beelzebub are doing their own thing in typical late 15th century style. This work draws considerable inspiration from the real historical phenomenon known as the Bonfire of the Vanities (February 1497), where acolytes of Girolamo Savonarola burned thousands of "vanities" as a public rejection of sin and moral degradation. Some historians believe that even paintings by Botticelli were burned in such fires.Hopefully this will translate from my brain to the screen with some sense of direction because this is what happens when my history lecture hyperfixations meet my special interest hyperfixations and brawl in a Barnes and Noble cafe.





	Pira

_Somewhere in Italy, 1497…_  
No more wallowing in the pleasures of the world. Or so the friar commanded. He did not preach so much as bellow from the pulpit, which had been hastily erected in the marketplace when news reached the village of his impending arrival. A small bonfire had been lit at the beginning of the sermon. Most stood in the open sun, separated from the nobles who fanned themselves from the colonnades. He preached about the Virgin Mary and of the charity that was expected of them in the coming winter. All the while he shouted, swung his arms and stamped his feet. Thin coils of smoke rose from the fire pit. Some in the crowd could not speak Latin, but listened with rapt attention nevertheless. They were the lowliest of peasants, and the sun burned their skin red to match the face of the preacher who relentlessly cried out to them. The moment they were waiting for was coming. The friar, sensing the afternoon heat had created enough of a torpor over the nobles, turned to face them.  


_“I pray that God spares you!”_ He raged, “For the frivolities of fashion have spoiled you! What service does your silk neckerchief provide you, other than to stifle you in this heat? So it does with your very soul! Rid yourself of these vanities, for they leash you to sin like beasts!” The fire burned as if it too was incensed by the words that echoed through the clearing. The friar then took a book from his belt and waved it aloft. Those standing closest to him could just make out the colorful illuminations on the pages. It was a book of poetry, and was the first of many offerings to the fire. Thick clouds of black smoke churned against the sky as the people offered their sins to the flames. Ruffled collars crackled like kindling, fragments of shattered mirrors littered the ground and paintings in their gilded frames melted into oily tar.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Shortly after…_  
“They were burning _Boccaccio!_ ” Aziraphale wailed. “And _Petrarch!”_  
The display in the marketplace had nearly discorporated him on the spot and he was pacing around the room with a handful of books clutched protectively against his chest. 

“Sermons are a spectator sport, Angel!” The demon beside him said, tearing the lace off his doublet sleeves. Tossing the fabric aside, Crowley sank comfortably into a nearby armchair. “Besides, what else does that lot have to look forward to besides toil and general misery?” He paused, watching his companion from behind a pair of black spectacles. The angel Aziraphale masquerading as an antiquarian did not look up and instead set his attention on a stack of books on a side table. He had obtained them at great personal expense, but none of them were quite as nice as the one in the marketplace. Aziraphale cringed at the memory of its incineration alongside several hundred pairs of pointed leather shoes. It was absolutely time to move on from Italy. The place was in shambles. Or in flames. Either way, his books and ruffled collars were in grave peril. 

“I don’t know…” Crowley grinned, lowering his frames an inch. “It seemed pretty fitting when the Divine Comedy got the pitch. You know, Inferno-“  
“Oh that is absolutely enough.” Aziraphale huffed, throwing his hands in the air. Crowley’s golden eyes narrowed as he searched his friend’s face for any sign of real hurt, but laughed when he detected only irritation. People liked to destroy things. Not to mention how much they liked to destroy one another. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. A particularly zealous serf had tried hacking apart the wooden railings that separated himself from the nobles, but was beaten. The symbols of their authority would burn but not the real partition. It was all too familiar. If it was permissible, he would have stretched his wings, darker than piles of blackened finery.

“I bet nothing like this happens in France. It’s bound to calm down for the next few centuries, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked, cramming the last of his favorite books into a satchel. 

“The book thing or the dress code?”

“You’re terrible.” 

“Absolutely! But things could be worse. Your shop could have been closer to the marketplace. I hear they’ve taken to looting.” 

As if on cue, both angel and demon became aware of frenzied shouting from outside. Aziraphale jumped and shuttered the blinds while Crowley stood leisurely and yawned. “That’s enough excitement for one decade, don’t you think?” He said. Aziraphale didn’t answer, but looked forlornly at the books he intended to leave behind. “France, right Angel?” Crowley patted Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up later.”  
He was alone in an instant, and was glad for it. Crowley carefully removed his glasses and smiled fondly at the literature stacked on every available surface. The noise outside was getting louder. He snapped his fingers and the remaining books vanished as quickly as the angel who collected them. They’d find their way back to him when he set up shop again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for bearing with me for chapter one. I'm looking forward to chapter two!


End file.
